


Nobody's Got No Class

by anoneknewmoose



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Community: trope_bingo, Drunk Fic, M/M, Podfic Welcome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 10:10:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoneknewmoose/pseuds/anoneknewmoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray is very fucking confused by where his life is right now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nobody's Got No Class

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt _Ian/Ray - Ian is the powerbottom, and Ray is a very mellow top_. Originally posted [here](http://no-tags.dreamwidth.org/10660.html). Title courtesy a cut track/scene from the movie "Chicago." Thank you to my cheerleaders and audience/beta readers. ♥

Ray meets Ian Crawford at a Pete Wentz birthday party. But then, he meets a lot of people at Pete's parties. Pete knows people. That's why Ray fucking hates going to his parties; not that he _minds_ people, but half of these people are wearing clothes that cost more than his last guitar and they want to gossip about who's fucking who in LA and Decaydance. Ray really doesn't give a shit.

He'd rather be almost anywhere else, but Gerard's too busy with a newborn to talk about the next record and Bauer's too sick for anything but watching Daddy play PS3. Which is what Ray has been doing for the last three days. Which is why Mikey and Alicia showed up at his apartment, and now he's here, in Pete's too-slick living room, while Mikey and Alicia and Pete and Ashlee do unspeakable things with Star Wars costumes in Pete's bedroom.

Ray didn't even want to know _that_ much, but Pete and Ashlee answered the door together. Posed.

So Ray is left to mingle. The living room is full of people so glittery that they make Ray's head ache; he grabs two beers and heads down a hallway, away from the master suite.

He finds himself in Pete's...media room, apparently. Or possibly man cave. There's a ridiculously huge TV with possibly every game console known to man, a wet bar, and couches surrounding some kids playing Rock Band. 

Well. Relatively kids. Young enough they make Ray feel ancient. One of Pete's baby bands, presumably, since they're too old for him to be pulling a Michael Jackson. 

They're all young, but they're drinking coronas and passing around joints, and a skinny one with hipster glasses nods Ray in. 

"Hey, man, join the party," he says.

"Thought I already had?" Ray huffs and drops on the couch. The kid next to him looks like a hippie, shaggy curls held back with a bandana and unbuttoned plaid shirt. He grins lazily and passes Ray a joint and a beer.

"Nah. Now you're with the _cool_ kids," he says. 

"Oh, well." Ray snorts and shakes his head. He takes a hit from the joint anyway before passing it on to someone with the upper body of a drummer, then settles into the couch to let the pot bleed into his system. It's decent shit, and the kids are picking good songs for the game. What the hell, it's better than the glitterati outside.

The kid next to him turns out to be one Ian Crawford, formerly of the Cab, apparently. 

"Who the fuck are the Cab?" Ray asks. They sound vaguely familiar, but shit, there are a lot of band names thrown around the My Chem bus when they're on the road.

Ian shrugs. "Singer's--Alex Deleon's--band. Spencer found them. They found me. And now I'm here." 

"Ah," Ray says, and drinks his beer. Bands are complicated. My Chem's been luckier than most in the interpersonal drama department, but after years on the scene he can smell a shitstorm from a mile away.

Thank fuck Ian just nods and leaves it at that.

Ian plays guitar and they have an amiable debate of their respective favored models. Ray commiserates on the hell of touring in a van. (Thank god My Chem is done with that.) They talk about their dogs, and Ian actually almost tears up when Ray tells him how sick Bauer is, and they share a sweaty clingy hug that ends in Ian half in Ray's lap.

He vaguely thinks he should be bothered, but Ian is small, and his hand fits so well on his hip, and he's enjoying the close up of Ian's tattoos. The dove in flight as Ian's pectorals flex, the F-hole on his forearm stretching when Ian turns his hand.

It's kind of pretty, if Ray's honest with himself. And drunk and high. Ray is definitely drunk and high-honest with himself.

He's drunk and high enough to be musing about the welcomness of putting his arm over the kid--Ian's--shoulders when Ian turns and plops himself squarely astride Ray's lap. 

"The fuck?" Ray grunts, surprised, and looks up. Ian's grinning widely, ear to ear.

And then he leans over and kisses Ray, dirty, like they aren't surrounded by his band mates playing fucking X-box, like they haven't just met an hour ago. Ian's in his space, thighs tight around Ray's hips and tongue licking deep into Ray's mouth. Ian's hands, small but callused and strong and fucking _clever_ , splay over Ray's shoulders and then his neck and then into his hair. He is absofuckinglutely surrounded by possibly jailbait, definitely twinky, little guitar dude.

His cock is really into the idea and Ray realizes he's already, instinctively, rubbing Ian's hips and sucking on his tongue. He gets the kid settled a little, slowed and lazier and sinking deeper into the couch under Ian's weight. 

"Gngh," Ian says. He pulls away from Ray's face slowly, eyes a little glazed. "We should definitely bone."

"Bone?" Ray snorts and presses a thumb into the soft flesh beside Ian's hipbone. "We can hookup or fuck, if you want. We're not going to _bone_."

"Boooooooone." Ian draws out the vowel, lips a perfect o, and Ray can't suppress a little shudder.

The one with the hipster glasses--Brandon? Or Brendon. Bden.--hoots and picks it up like a fucking refrain, singing a scale with it. The Spencer one punches him in the arm to shut him up and adds, "just get a fucking room, Ian."

Ian squirms on Ray's lap to free his arms and flip them both a double bird.

"Jesus, okay, children," Ray says. He rolls his eyes and slaps Ian's hip, pushes him toward the door. "You know the lay of the land, Crawford, find us a room."

"Sir yes sir," Ian says, because of course he does, and he adds a sloppy solute and blows a kiss at the other guys before he grabs Ray's hand and drags him down the hall. They pass other rooms but Ian apparently has a Destination in mind, even pulling Ray back through the party that's still going strong--and still host-less. 

There's a kitchen and a deck and a pool and finally Ian leads Ray to a secluded little cottage that turns out to be just a...studio apartment, really. 

Ray blinks, surprised. "Pete bought a house with maids quarters?"

"Yeah, but he uses a service? So he just, y'know. Lets people crash here, or whatever," Ian says. His shirt flutters to the ground and Ray's immediately distracted by the play of muscles on his back. He steps close, running his fingers over the familiar lyric on Ian's skin.

"Deep," Ray says. 

Ian turns sharply to give him a look, cheeks pink, then shrugs and unbuttons his jeans. "Whatever. We gonna fuck or what?"

"Um. Yeah?" Ray lets the hostility roll off his shoulders, reminds himself that this is just a fuck. Some kid's chip on his shoulder is not his problem. "Sure."

Ray pulls his shirt over his head and picks Ian up by the waist, tossing him onto the bed before Ian can say boo, laughing at his startled yelp and using the distraction to undo his button fly. Ian looks like something out of porn, one of the dirty indie ones Lyn-z or Gerard got from an art school friend. It's not a bad look.

It's only helped by the fact that Ian stays sprawled on his back for only a second before he's rolling toward the nightstand.

And then he actually tosses multicolored strips of condoms onto the bed with a "pick a size, Goldilocks," and squirts lube onto his fingers.

"Jesus fuck," is all Ray has time to say before Ian's positioning himself on his knees and pushing a long skinny middle finger into his ass. _Fuck._

Ian hums and throws him a filthy grin, resting his cheek on his arm. "Yeah. I like to do this part first. Glove up, bro."

"Ugh, you can not call me _bro_ and talk about putting a condom on in the same sentence," Ray says. But he pushes his boxers off anyway and kneels on the bed behind Ian. Then he adds, "Also, some of us aren't sixteen," and runs his hand down Ian's back, pressing his thumb just against the rim of his hole where his finger is slowly working.

"God _why_ ," Ian groans. 

"Just give me a minute, shit," Ray says. It's a hot fucking noise though, and Ray's arousal goes up a notch. He can practically feel his cock swelling, warmth spreading through him. 

"Hurry up," Ian grunts. His thighs twitch open and he adds a finger inside of himself. 

"Fuck, what happened to making out?" Ray squeezes Ian's ass reflexively and he spits in his free hand, just enough to ease the slide of his hand on his own cock. 

"We made out for _hours_ ," Ian whines. 

Lies. Even with the booze and pot, Ray knows they didn't make out longer than half an hour, but apparently it was enough to get Ian raring to go and it was enough to get him half hard, so. Ray grunts and entertains himself by pushing a finger into Ian's ass with his.

"Fuck. Okay. You could do that," Ian says. He pulls his hand away and wipes it clean on the tasteful beige comforter.

"Oh really?" but God, Ray loves this, fucking loves preparing someone's body for his cock. It gets him hard like no other, spitting into their ass and fingering them open. Helps that Ian's moaning like a pro, gagging for it in a way that makes Ray wish that they had the time for blowjobs they don't seem to have time for.

"Ray. Fuck, shit, come _on_ just fucking _fuck_ me." Ian's voice is raw and loud, and Ray's cock jerks in his hand.

Ray mumbles some sort of soothing nonsense and leans over to kiss Ian's neck while he rolls the condom on. He's off balance, and it's embarrassingly easy for Ian to twist and push him over onto his back. Ray's still catching his breath when Ian grabs his cock and sinks onto it. His body makes one perfect, glorious, line, cock arching up over his right hip and narrow waist leading up to his chest. His neck is long, head flung back, and his teeth are white against his lip. 

"Shit. _Shit_ ," Ray says. 

Ian grins down at him like a feral cat. "I knew it. I knew it as soon as you walked in that you'd be hung like a horse."

"Pete has really fucking weird friends," Ray says. He gasps and gives in to his baser urges, digging his fingers into Ian's hips and driving up into him. Ian yelps but he's giggling and bracing his hands on Ray's chest to ride him harder.

"Shh, you'll summon him," Ian says. 

"God forbid," Ray says, heartfelt. Ian's still giggling. It's fucking weird and fucking hot, and when Ray rolls them over Ian just pulls his legs up over Ray's shoulders. Ray's mouth is full of Ian's hair and the bed thunks against the wall as Ian moans into his ear. 

"Fuck, that's the shit, _yes_ ," Ian says. His hand moves between them to touch himself. Ray shakes his his head and sits back on his heels.

"You wanted to get fucked," Ray says, and he wraps his hand around Ian's cock, stroking him in doubletime to his thrusts. There's enough sweat and lube and precome that everything's just right, easy but dragging, enough friction and noise that Ray feels tight and condensed, a coiled spring on a hair trigger.

Ian's a little tighter every time Ray swipes his thumb over the underside of his cock head. Ray licks his lips, focusing; Ian's heels dig into the small of his back as he lets out a strangled noise and comes.

His hot little ass squeezing his cock like that is just what Ray needed. Endorphins and tingling heat wash over him as he stiffens and collapses on Ian.

 

\---

 

Ray wakes up the next morning to a note on the nightstand.

> Thanks for the boning. Here's my number. Let me know how Bauer's doing. 
> 
> -IC

Not a bad kid, after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> Also counting this for my Trope Bingo: "in vino veritas / drunkfic."


End file.
